On the next Maury. . .
You know how you discuss your uterus at work?
Yeah, I didn’t think that happened. Unless you work in a gynecology office or in porn or for Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas (Aw snap! Clarence Thomas jokes are soooooo 1991. Better rinse off that Coke can).
But I talked about my uterus at work, or at least I answered questions about it. It seemed odd at the time…mainly because it is completely #$!%^*^!%$ odd.
Here’s what happened:
Another coworker is pregnant with her first child. Since I’m not a hoarder nor planning on having anymore children apart from the one, I am giving her a ton of my old baby items that my 19-month-old no longer uses. She is very grateful cuz that sh*t’s expensive and you use it for about 5 minutes. She is not the problem.
Before a work meeting began, I let her know that I had some bottles, a sterilizer and a feeding chair in my car.
Won’t you need those for your second child? asks someone else very appropriately since my childbearing decisions clearly affect her and I was including her in the conversation by not addressing her in the slightest. Uh…no, I answer. This is a really good time to have a second child.
At this point, I am really enjoying the direction this conversation is headed…probably in the same way single people enjoy being asked when they will get married, childless married couples when they will have children and the elderly when they will die.
Oh, I’m just having the one, I breezily say and continue my conversation with my pregnant friend.
You can’t let your son be an only child, chimes in another coworker.
Um….I can’t do what now?
He’ll be lonely.
Yes, my daughter and son are best friends, says the other.
Have I suddenly become a character in an after-school special about peer pressure? Hey man, everyone’s having second babies. You don’t wanna be a loser, dawg.
That’s sweet. My brother used to kick me so hard, he’d knocked the wind out of me. I’m good with the one.
It’s really much easier with the second one. You don’t even notice it.
Really? I don’t really notice another human being completely and utterly dependent upon me for his or her survival? Alright then, let’s get with the babymaking.
There are many reasons why I’m only having one child. These are reasons that I’m not completely comfortable discussing with people I work with but barely know at all..especially at the start of a work meeting.
Since these questions will likely continue until I reach a certain age, I need to come up with a better response than “uhhhhhhhh.”
Here are my ideas for possible responses (please let me know your fav in the comments section):
1. I would LOVE to have another baby!!!! With your husband! And you videotaping it!
2. Your question just gave me menopause.
3. It’s weird. After the first baby, my uterus packed its suitcase and up and left without even leaving a note.
4. The satanic cult said they only needed the one.
5. I suffer from adult baby syndrome. My doctor said I would need to give birth to an adult to take care of me.
6. Oh, so you want to know about my husband and my lovemaking sessions? Great! I’ve been waiting to tell you about them for like, ever. First we light all of our Paula Deen Crisco-scented candles until our living room smells like the midway at a state fair. Then my husband lets the gimp and monkey out of the cellar. While the gimp teaches the monkey to whistle Nelly’s “It’s Getting Hot in Here,” my husband begins to cut pieces of his clothing off and stuff them into his mouth. By this point I’m done eating the peanut butter sandwich I’ve made in the kitchen and become part of the quartet as the monkey begins spinning like a whirling dervish….wait, where are you going?
7. Oh see the psychic told me my next child would ask completely inappropriate personal questions of work acquaintances and I didn’t want to inflict that on anyone.
The holiday season is upon us–actually it began seven weeks ago so if you haven’t started your shopping yet, you’re basically %$%!&. With the holiday season comes the joy of spending money on marvelous gifts for marvelous people you marginally like….ahem..marvously like.
I love shopping. Love, love, love it!!! The movie Confessions of a Shopaholic was completely based on my life although I cannot say that with the utmost certainty having never actually seen it. I’m that person who tramples over that other person to buy that StirChef™ Hands-free Saucepan Stirrer every Black Friday at every Walmart in the country. I don’t just shop till I drop, I drop other people while I shop because I want me some delicious crap made by the tiny, tiny hands of children in foreign lands.
Wait a sec…..oh, yes, that’s right. I hate shopping. Hate, hate, hate it!!! The movie Confessions of a Nonshopaholic would be a movie based on my life if it was written and directed by me and then sold to a studio and distributed nationwide.
I think why I hate shopping, and in particular holiday shopping, is because I never know what to buy other people. What do you mean you don’t want a Thigh Glider®?
This year may be different, thanks to LTD Commodities. They sent me their catalog because they must have known I needed help or possibly some website I shopped at sold my personal information to them–six of one, half-dozen of the other.
And this catalog is a white Christmas wonderland of non-island-of-misfit-toys splendor. So so much to chose from. Let’s take a walk down Candy Cane Lane together, shall we?
Shot Gun Shell Shot Glasses – the name just rolls off the tongue especially when you have downed several shots of whiskey. This is marketed as “ideal serveware for your hunting lodge” and I couldn’t agree more, but it would be also perfect for every day use, baptisms and shotgun weddings.
D.A.D.D. & M.O.M.S Sweatshirts
The D.A.D.D. sweatshirts stands for Dads Against Daughters Dating and the M.O.M.S. for Mothers of Marvelous Sons. These are “humorous.” Yes.
On a side note, I appreciate that the catalog has labeled both the mom and the dad in the picture.
Call of Duty® Fleece Throw – Nothing softer or cozier than war.
Instructional Eye Shadow Sets – Learn smoky eye or experiment with your own color combination under the surveillant eye of Big Brother.
Paula Deen Scented Candles – Captures that perfect Southern-fried Crisco scent.
Peace Sign Tables – Give peace a chance… to hold up your Paula Deen scented candles.
Man Cave Stool – Allows one to “mark his male territory.” It will be easy to clean up any urine that hits the vinyl seat as one is marking his territory on the floor around the stool.
Football Team Bedroom Ensemble – To guarantee that you will never, ever score.
Things are bleak man.
More children are living in poverty. The unemployed are staying unemployed for longer durations. Kate Plus 8 has been canceled, which will contribute to eight more children living in poverty and one more adult qualifying for unemployment.
But the real reason I’m saying “things are bleak man” is that the horoscope has even become godawful depressing. I don’t normally read my horoscope mainly because I don’t believe every human born within the same month share the same qualities.
Like take Harriet Tubman, a woman who risked her life for freedom and risked it again and again so others could be free. She was a spy in the Civil War and the first female to lead a raid against an enemy camp. She was a Pisces. So is John Stossel. He has a show on Fox News and is known for whining the phrase “Give me a break.” He is a douche.
Or take Mother Teresa who devoted her life to helping the poor and sick in India. She was a Virgo. So is Dr. Phil. Dr. Phil makes his money exploiting the bewildered. And is a giant-headed turd. So is Dr. Drew Pinsky. He’s a Virgo, I mean. His head is normal-sized, and he is a bespectacled turd. And he makes his money exploiting the bewildered who once had some semblance of fame if you consider porn and reality TV as legitimate entertainment careers.
So I don’t put much faith into astrological signs. I’m a Scorpio. So is John Boehner. And Charles Manson. My father and George W. Bush were born on the same day in the same year so they should be pretty similar. Yet my father is actually competent in his job. And he did not fabricate evidence to start an unnecessary war and then later say his most regrettable moment in his presidency was when Kanye West said my father didn’t care about black people. At least I don’t think that happened to him. I will ask him tomorrow and post an editor’s note if I am mistaken.
I know, I know, George W. Bush jokes are sooooo 2008. But I’m a little off today, and my horoscope said I would be. My horoscope told me a big urgent responsibility (i.e. writing my next blog post) that I’d been artfully dodging in hopes that someone else would do it (i.e., Les from Best Bathroom Books, Nancy from Not Quite Old), would be dumped in my lap. And–get this–Me and my lap asked for it. Like, what the &**!^&$#@! horoscope. That is really hostile.
So I checked out the other signs and they were equally belligerent, accusatory and critical.
“If you refuse to go along with the majority, you are likely to create a lot of unnecessary dissension” – Better conform, you goddamn Sagittarius. Don’t be thinking for yourself.
“If you are too indecisive, someone else will make the big decision. Don’t blame them if you don’t like their choice” you $%$!$% spineless piece o’ crap Libra.
“You should take extra precautions when working with tools or materials that you are unfamiliar with” because, frankly Taurus, you are a dumbass and will likely lop off your own head.
And on and on it goes–all bleak.
I’m expecting tomorrow’s will be something like “The zombie apocalypse is upon you.”
I’ll make sure I don’t have any Tauruses with me.
Working is very difficult.
It has caused me to miss the answer to the greatest bombshell question in the history of question-asking. I got a little teaser from the Today show when Matt Lauer said we would get the answer to this earth-shatterer: Would Casey Anthony’s parents let her babysit her brother’s child?????
Well, if he had a child. He doesn’t. But that is still a fucking awesome question. It made me do this:
I know this question kicks balls because the Today anchor interviewing Dr. Phil told him it was “a very interesting” question. And I looked up “very” and “interesting” in the dictionary and they continue to have the same meanings. This Today anchor knows what he’s talking about–although he also knows when Matt Lauer retires, he will never take the anchor chair because he’s older than Matt and must content himself with Matt’s dinner scraps, but he makes himself feel better knowing that he has his Matt Lauer voo-doo doll at home under his pillow and he will be able to stick pins in it later and that stops the roaring in his ears.
If you hadn’t read my previous post of the very un-turdlike manner of Dr. Phil, you may be unaware that Dr. Phil has conducted 1,321,408 interviews with Cindy and Anthony Anthony (I don’t know the father’s name, and am too lazy to Google it, but believe this is “a very interesting” guess). He has done this because this is the biggest story in my lifetime and any person’s lifetime born in the next 75 years–hence the nuclear bomb question of amazingness. The Today show even had on a judge to give her perspective. She was very normal-looking.
While Dr. Phil’s question was truly terrific and I did have to pick my jaw up off the floor and I was saying “Wha…wha…wha…” because I couldn’t even get the word “what” out of my mouth because my brain had so totally exploded, I think he missed an opportunity to ask even better follow-up questions. Here it is the biggest news story of our lifetime and anyone else’s lifetime born in the next 75 years, and Dr. Phil, frankly, dropped the ball and continued on with the next line of questioning, which I believe was:
“Do you think my giant head could fit inside the grand canyon?” (The answer is no.)
Here is what I would have followed up with:
Let’s say Casey brother is in a tight spot and really needs a babysitter, and the only choices are Casey or OJ Simpson. Who should he pick?
What if the choices were Casey or one of those mothers from Toddlers & Tiaras?
Say you have a time machine and you can send Casey back in time, would you allow her to babysit herself?
If Mary and Joseph needed a night out on the town, would you let Casey babysit Baby Jesus?
What if it was Adolf Hitler’s parents?
Do you think Nancy Grace would ever ask Casey to babysit her twins, and if so, do you think Casey would do a good job?
Would you let Casey date someone who suffered from adult baby syndrome?
I know it is canceled, but would you let Casey star on the show Casey and Kate Plus 8?
Would you let Casey adopt a virtual baby? What about a Furby®?
Would you let Casey care for a Baby Think It Over® infant simulator? What if it was a sock puppet with a baby’s face drawn onto it? What if it was just a sock?
Could you leave Casey and Dr. Phil alone in a room with only a bottle of chloroform? Please.
Giving birth is hard, but I found raising the actual child harder. I had certain expectations.
The reality was a little different–especially in the beginning. In the first few weeks, many people come by your house to coo at your baby. This usually happens when you’ve just begun nursing. It’s typically your father-in-law or father. These are the fun moments.
You change a lot of diapers. You cannot believe someone so small can produce the waste of an entire elementary school on a single day. You keep track. Since you’re breastfeeding you have no idea if the baby is getting enough to eat. You begin to realize that you have one hour and 20 minutes between each 40-minute-bouts of nursing when you can be something other than a food source. These are the even funner moments.
I think I suffered from postpartum depression the first two months of my son’s life. My therapist at the time said I had adjustment disorder in order for me to submit my visits to my insurance provider. It was a very lonely time. I remember distinctly my mother showing me an picture of my baby on her iPhone and me just wanting to be left alone so I could watch Dancing with the Stars. In my defense, it was the episode where Kate Gosselin stomped around to the song “Paparazzi.”
It was in these profoundly sad moments that I turned to tabloid magazines for support. And wouldn’t you know, a “celebrity” could articulate exactly what I was experiencing.
Kendra Wilkinson, a former Playboy bunny whose claim to fame was dating the host of Tales from the Crypt, recently had become a mother herself. She now peered at me from the magazine covers, exclusively sharing her new mom confessions with Us Weekly and exclusively sharing her new mom worries with In Touch and exclusively sharing her new mom anxieties with Life & Style. To use the parlance of reality television, I felt a connection.
It was like she had a window into my brain when she discussed her decision to breastfeed. Anyone who says this is a natural, beautiful process has blocked out the first two months when neither participant knows what the hell to do, and where you wish you could do something gentler to yourself, like rub sandpaper on your nipples and coat them with lemon juice.
Kendra, like many mothers, worried about her ability to nurse with Triple D implants. It was like Kendra channeled my own thoughts when she said: “Right up until I went into labor, I was like, I don’t want to breastfeed! Then the baby came, and I was like, Ooh! I want to breastfeed!” I might have even said those exact words.
In two sentences, Kendra perfectly encapsulated the internal struggle of nursing vs. formula.
And as difficult as the decision to nurse was, it was nothing compared to the sadness Kendra felt. I, too, felt trapped and overburdened. I felt like I had nothing to look forward to, that my life would forever be an endless cycle of diaper-changing, feedings and CNN-watching. Kendra recounted the story of a visit by friends a few weeks after giving birth. Her words were like a lifeline:
“It was bad timing. They were really hot and had really nice bodies.”
Thank you, Kendra, for explaining why I was feeling so hopeless and forlorn.
And the story ends well for both of us….I no longer want to get in the car and drive as far away as possible from my son…and Kendra consumed Abdominal Cuts, a weightloss supplement filled with conjugated linoleic acid, to get her body back in shape. Win-win.
This month, Mr. Speaker7 and I will celebrate our wedding anniversary. Eight years….eight, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long years. From what I understand, on the first anniversary, one bestows a gift of paper. The second, a rock followed by scissors on the third and so on and so on until the eighth, which is a fish wrapped in newspaper (reference: Martha Stewart Weddings). But I decided that my eighth anniversary gift will be a gift to you readers. Clearly I have a good handle on marriage because a) I’m still married and b) I’m not divorced.
Just look at this picture of wedded bliss:
I want you all to learn from my success so one day, you too can write a blog post heralding your successful marriage to my husband. Here are eight tips for having a successful marriage:
1. Don’t marry someone who sucks. Many people make this classic rookie mistake (reference: Bridezillas). You date someone for awhile, you hate him/her and then you get this idea that you will hate him/her less if you legally bind yourself to him/her for all eternity.
2. Strive for honesty. I say strive because we all have to lie to our spouses at some time. Do you think my saddlebags make me unattractive? Nope, in fact I’d like them bigger. Is my blog funny? Yes, yes it is. You didn’t laugh when I forced you to read my latest entry. I was laughing on the inside. What does that mean? Your saddlebags look really good today.
3. Don’t be that person who says your marriage works because you’re always right and then titter because that’s so original. Have you ever taken a good gander at the people who believe they are never wrong? It’s “people” like Nancy Grace, Dr. Phil and George W. Bush. Yeah, those people are the worst.
4. Please, oh please, for the love of christ, do not put your marital woes as your status update on Facebook. There is a good chance that your spouse is a Facebook friend or if not (why isn’t your spouse your Facebook friend? that’s wrong, man) has mutual friends, and will not enjoy reading “I want to divorce _____ so much right now” and seeing that you changed your relationship status to single. And then your mutual friends and family see this and begin to comment worryingly under your update, and now it’s really hard to explain that you’re mad because your spouse ate all of the Klondike bars and you were really looking forward to one after a long day at the fishhook factory. So since that makes you look petty, you end up filing for divorce, which was truly something you would not do for Klondike bar, but in this case you did.
5. Oh my god, do I really have to say this?..do not, I repeat, do not take a picture of your genitals and send it to someone you met on the Internet. Now men, I’m going to address you now because I don’t know of many stories about women getting into a serious pickle for photographing their vaginas (yes Oprah, I’m using the word vagina. I am empowered). There is no woman alive who wants to see that. No woman. If some special Internet friend is asking to see that, s/he (always he) is likely working for Perverted Justice. On a sidenote, isn’t that just about the worst name in the world. Are they saying the only justice they dish out is perverted? They should call it what it is…a total sham.
6. Make sure your sentences have verbs. I stole this from Dr. Phil’s “A Good Marriage” advice column. I wasn’t aware that people really had a problem with this, but I’m putting it just in case you leaving notes for your spouse that read like this: I with your best friend. I home late. I you.
7. Don’t fall in love with Edward Cullen/Jacob Werewolf (I’m too lazy to look up his last name) from the Twilight series. Don’t lament that your spouse’s eyes aren’t topaz or that his arms aren’t made of marble or that he doesn’t sparkle in sunlight or that he doesn’t imprint on fetuses (I’m not getting into this part, if you want to know what it means look it up online) or doesn’t eat live chickens or doesn’t write the most boring books of all time….Don’t be these people.
8. Do not take advice from people who claim they have the key to a successful marriage. They always have no idea what they’re talking about.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the sanctity of marriage. So has this guy. If you can make it past the first sentence, you will learn that God is the author of marriage. He also wrote the Constitution and the chorus to “We Didn’t Start the Fire.” So God is clearly miffed that man is trying to rewrite His stuff by allowing gay and lesbian couples to marry.
How is marriage to survive?
Fret not, my friend. Marriage is alive and well, as I saw firsthand on last night’s episode of Bridezillas. Last night’s episode featured a sweet wallflower named Suzy who suffers from a terrible condition called Tourette’s syndrome.
Suzy, 19, is betrothed to her one true love Taylor. Her impending marriage is causing a wee bit of stress in the young lass’s life. She tells her mother to kindly “Leave me the f*** alone right now” and “I’ll do your make up. Two black eyes and a bloody lip” and “I’m not going to tolerate you, you old bitch.”
She tries vainly to come up with a proper seating arrangement for the reception. She wants both sets of parents to sit with the bridal couple. The only problem? Taylor’s parents have two small children.
“Kids ruin everything,” Suzy sighs. “I hate them.”
So what else can she do, but scream “I don’t give a f*** about this anymore!” and storm off. Her mother follows in the car, telling Suzy to get in. Suzy’s response is to flip her the double bird. Sugar and spice and everything nice…
There are other beautiful moments like the time Suzy tells her fiance “I hate you right now” and elbows him in the chest. There’s the time she dumps a glass of ice-cold water over the best man’s head at the rehearsal dinner. There’s the one time she addresses someone and does not use the word “F***.”
God’s hand is clearly in the vows Suzy writes for her wedding day. She makes no promises of love or devotion, but tells Taylor she will be just as awful as she is right now for the rest of her life. Masel tov!
I should mention that the show also featured another lovely bride.
She drank excessively, popped anti-anxiety medication and repeatedly instructed her fiance not to touch her. Sound advice.
There was more, but I do not have the strength to carry on.
I will let God carry on this blog post for me.
. . .
This blog post is dedicated to my brother who turns 175 today. I like to make cracks about his age because it’s all I really have up on him, the fact that I’m younger.
My brother is smart. I mean he is really, really smart.
This is what he looks like:
He’s the kind of smart that people like Sarah Palin hate. She would say something like “Oh so you’re one of those gotcha elitists who like to smear blood libel in the great liberty bell of Paul Revere’s house. Your kind is just.. um.. is just reprehendiculous.”
You know how there’s only one tenured college professor job for the thousands of people out there looking? Well my brother got that job. He first book of poetry won some big poetry award. I’m not really up on my knowledge of poetry awards, but I think it was something like the Shel Silverstein Ickle Me Tickle Me Award of Excellence. I, on the otherhand, have this published blog. My blog has 9 readers, and I know or am related to about half of them.
Like I mentioned before, I am younger–way, way younger like a little baby duckling or a Courtney Stodden–so I would inevitably get teachers who already had my brother as their student. It would go something like this:
“Oh! You’re ___’s sister! Well then I expect great things from you.” Whoa…hold on. Let’s not all get crazy here. Let’s just calm the #$@! down for a second. Can I put my pencil case in my desk, please? Can I just do that before we all lose our @$&! minds?
As the school year progressed, and their expectations dropped to the lowest pit of despair, they would occasionally reaffirm my relation to my brother. “You’re not adopted, right?”
So okay I’m not as smart as my brother. He got a 1580 on his SATs. I got a *cough* 990 the first time I took the test, but the next time, I studied my little head off. . . and I got a 990.
When I applied for college, my guidance counselor wrote a recommendation that perfectly encapsulated my experience growing up with a much smarter sibling. This was the first sentence: “As a freshman, [Speaker7] was a shy student in the shadow of her brother who was an exceptional student.” She went on to extol his brilliance and the accomplishments of my parents, “pillars of the community.” It was a nicer way of saying “[Speaker7] is pure crap. Maybe her brother or parents can do her classwork for her?”
For the record, I did actually get accepted into a college. I managed to eke out a living as a reporter covering landfills, wheat festivals and crow invasions, and now write a rarely-read blog. It hasn’t been all rainclouds (see: brother’s shadow).
So Happy Birthday brother! You don’t look a day older than 293!